Category: Family

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Classical Cuts Follow Us

As I was uploading my hairs pix for this morning’s post, something kept nagging at me. Suddenly, I remembered: My 1st Grade sideburns. They resemble my new ones, although they were probably pretty even with each other in length. Everything old is new again, and I figure I’m just a sideburn gal. Sideburns will find me. (That thing in my hair is some unidentifiable goober that globbed onto the picture decades ago. Not a hairs accessory.) Note: Check out the unibrow I’m working on. That takes skill!

Mom made the dress I’m wearing in the pic, but I don’t remember any specifics about it. I can pretty much guarantee the dress has pockets though. Mom had to make dresses for me cuz I had an important reason I wouldn’t wear store-bought dresses: I liked pockets! Most girls’ and women’s store-bought dresses don’t have pockets, and I’m writing about a time when girls couldn’t wear pants to school. It was all dresses, my friends. I was in HELL! Mom deserves an award for sewing me dresses with pockets. Where the heck is a little girl supposed to put the Lemonheads she wants to eat after school in Primary? I had to have a place to carry my Chapstick, pencil, treat money, cereal prizes, gum, that trilobite I found, etc. A girl has important pocket belongings.

Don’t talk to me about how a purse would’ve come in handy. As a 1st Grader, a girl should not have to carry and be in charge of a purse. Don’t talk to me about a mini backpack. They weren’t invented yet.

You certainly didn’t want to play at recess while holding your treasures in your hands. If you were a Delta Elementary school girl back in the day, you had to leave your “pocket” possessions in your desk. This meant there was a bigly possibility that if you had a really groovy treasure, it would be stolen by the time you got back to your desk after lunch or recess. I needed pockets!!!!

All I wanted was to wear my Levi’s everywhere. I do it now and the sky hasn’t fallen. As a kid, I wore them every minute I wasn’t in school for church. What was the harm adults were afraid jeans/pants would cause to girls? Were the adults afraid if we wore pants our knees would be safe from bloody sidewalk rash if we fell while roller skating at recess? Were the adults afraid if we girls wore Levi’s no one would be able to see our underwear while we hung on the monkey bars? Yup, Levi’s could have prevented those things. Levi’s were evil, however. But only for girls somehow.

Somewhere around 4th Grade, girls were finally allowed to wear “nice pants” to school. As I recall, “nice pants” mostly translated into “polyester pants.” Levi’s were still on the Axis of Evil o’ Girl School Clothes, but I was excited to buy nice pants from stores, for school. It was one step closer to legalizing Levi’s for girls. However, it had not occurred to me that girls’ store-bought nice pants didn’t have pockets in them either. Poor me. Poor Mom. My need for pockets in my clothing led her to a decade of sewing me dresses, pant suits, pants, and even a pair of golf knickers with a matching vest– all with pockets, of course. Sewing is a skill Mom has never enjoyed, but she was not about to make me go through life pocketless, if a pocket is what I needed. Who here is spoiled? I am.

I appreciate Mom’s efforts to always help me indulge my various whims. I’ve always loved Mom more than I’ve ever loved my pockets. And I truly love pockets. But Mom wins.

BTW I wish I had owned wood filigree Bow Tie o’ the Day when this photo was snapped in 1st Grade. Bow Tie is a winner with the dress fabric, as well as the sideburns.

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I Was Distracted

I will admit my wrong. Bow Tie o’ the Sabbath and I paid almost no attention whatsoever to whatever was going on in Sacrament Meeting this afternoon. We met up with my Sister Who Wishes To Remain Nameless, whereupon we trekked to Bishop Travis’ ward in Provo for some spiritual edification. Luckily for me and my SWWTRN, Bishopette Collette remembered to bring Grace, their new munchkin, to church with her. So it’s Bishopette Collette’s fault we couldn’t focus our attention on the pulpit.

We love Trav and Co. Always have, always will. And we love church. But a baby is like a puppy or a fire in the fireplace. You can’t look away from them, whether they are doing anything interesting or not. They are near-hypnotic, enthralling entertainment, in and of themselves. If there’s one of these three things in the room, it becomes the centerpiece of everyone’s attention. If you’ve got all three, you’ve won the trifecta. The jackpot prize you receive is your own personal three-ring circus of fascination. And dirty diapers. One of those circus rings will need to be stocked up with diapers.

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A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Bow Ties

Here’s a perfect photo, despite no Bow Ties o’ the Day to be seen on anyone. Queen Helen reigns, while Bishop Travis and Bishopette Collette sit to her left. My Sister Who Wishes To Remain Nameless sits on Mom’s right, and she yet again hogs her grandbaby, Grace Anne Blackwelder. And Grandpa Gary is one happy, happy man.

Today is Gary’s birthday, and I am giving him the gift of letting him star on TIE O’ THE DAY. If you have the good fortune to know Gary, you know he is generous and a jokester and a reader. I am also giving him the gift of finally revealing to the world the truth about one of his secret identities: Gary is My Hubby. Years ago, I even printed me a t-shirt to wear around Delta, which said, “GARY’S OTHER WIFE.”

If I needed some “hubby-help” when in Delta, Gary was my guy. Truck won’t start? Call My Hubby. Time to shut-off the outside water for the winter? Call My Hubby. Did the Delta wind rip the front porch screen door off its hinges and toss it into the canal? Have no fear– My Hubby is here! Did the hall light fixture suddenly fall out of the ceiling? That’s a job for My Hubby. I could go on and on.

Be warned: If I’m not in Delta and you mess with Mom, it’ll be My Hubby who gets in your face to handle your misbehavior. I just love that man. He’s My Hubby.

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I Know What You’re Thinking

Here it is Saturday, June 1st, and I thought I’d have a new haircut to show you. I’m sure you thought, or hoped, the same thing. It seems Miss Tiffany, mistress of my hairs, doesn’t work until Monday. I’m sorry for you and I’m sorry for myself that we have to endure my hairs the way they are for a couple more days. If I knew where Miss Tiffany lived I’d Uber me and my unclassy hairs right to her front door, and I would beg her to rid me of the offending hairs RIGHT NOW. I’d even bring the scissors.

In this photo, I and my Bow Tie’s o’ the Past are having a bald day with Momo, Zola Wright. Look at Momo’s Earrings o’ the Day! Momo had earrings like I have bow ties. Best. Grandma. Who. Lived. Next. Door. Ever!

This is how I’d like my new hairs to be for a while, but I can’t get the shaved-head idea past Suzanne again. She’s tolerated it twice over the decades, but I can tell she has done hit her top nerve about my having a bald head.

At Suzanne’s last haircut, Miss Tiffany asked her if I would let her cut my hairs any way she wants. You bet! So my first ‘do will be up to Miss Tiffany. She has tattoos, so I trust her taste in hairs. I will gladly put my head hairs in her hands. I hope my year-old hairs are not impossible to redeem.

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Another Of My Weird Theories

Hmmm. I blame JFK. “Delta red” Bow Tie o’ the Day and I have been chatting, and I may have figured out why I’m bipolar. I’ve always tried to get to the bottom of this mystery, and I’ve come up with theory after theory– none of which I can prove. The other culprits I have theorized are responsible for my crazy head range from universal fate, to luck, to the birth of a stone baby that was supposed to be me. (Long story.)

But I think I have hit on a probable suspect. And I guess it’s not so much JFK as it is Lee Harvey Oswald who caused my brain chemicals to be wacky. I was still growing my brain in Mom’s womb when JFK was assassinated. That’s where I was when Kennedy was shot.

How did this make me bipolar? The whole event was a cultural shock. It rattled the country in a way that not many events do. My theory of what made me bipolar is that while I was stretching and kicking in Mom, she was so overcome emotionally by the tragedy that it jolted my embryonic brain chemistry into a massive upheaval that was part of me from the moment I emerged into the world. Thus, I was born with the switch that so quickly takes me from deeply manic to deeply depressed.

Of course I’m being facetious about this. Although it’s fun to speculate about it, I seriously doubt my theory is correct. But still…. It makes as much sense as anything else I can theorize. On the other hand, sometimes things just are what they are– for no real reason at all. Honestly, in the end, the cause of my bipolarity doesn’t matter. Finding strategies to deal with it is what matters. I will, however, keep sleuthing for answers as to my bipolarity’s origin– the sillier, the better.

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Coconut Bra For Rent

My vest– which I have nicknamed The Pimp Vest– creates a suave clash with Shirt o’ the Day. The cherry on top of this get-up is my luau, yellow lab Bow Tie o’ the Day. The cleverest detail on Bow Tie is the use of coconut shells to create dog bacheechies. Dogs worship us, and they will do anything to please us. Even dogs printed on bow tie fabric are eager to do outlandish things to make us happy.

I’m sure at some point in your life, probably when you were watching GILLIGAN’S ISLAND in your kidhood, you and your pals mused about the old “lost on a deserted island” what-if. What five things would you want with you? Who would you like to be lost with? What would you most be glad to have left behind? And the conversation game questions go on.

Bow Tie’s coconut shells got me cogitating, and I’ll tell you right now that what I’d like to leave behind in the busy world is exactly what I’d need if I were building a new civilization on my own on a desert island. What thing of utmost importance would I need, but not want? I would need the dreaded, wretched, torture contraption known as a bra! Eeeeeeeek!!!!

You ladies know exactly what I’m talking about. Bras are not comfortable. I was once expertly fitted for a tailored bra. I was willing to pay a bigly fortune to wear a comfy bra. It did cost a bigly fortune, and it was quite becoming. It was not, however, anywhere near comfortable. I might as well have spent $12.95 on a too-stiff bra from Sears. Discomfort is discomfort.

Even on a deserted island though, it would be unspeakably dangerous of me to build a hut or cast a makeshift fishing pole while not wearing a bra. A person could get hurt. I could injure myself by moving too quickly. The phrase, “You’ll poke your eye out!” comes to mind.

Mom taught me well that a bra’s proper place is hanging from the doorknob on the back of the front door. A bra doesn’t belong on its owner, unless someone knocks on the door. Practice slipping it on without removing your shirt. Practice slipping it off the same way. When the bra is off you, and on the doorknob, keep an ear out for cars pulling up in the driveway. You especially have to watch out for that one pair of Home Teachers we had, who sometimes knocked an hour earlier than they were scheduled. Sometimes, you gotta be lickety-split swift puttin’ on that brassiere.

Mom taught me that the last place a bra belongs is around a woman’s chest. Make exceptions only when necessary, like when going to work, church, the grocery store, or when working out. Other than that, a good bra does nothing but hang silkily on the living room doorknob– causing discomfort to no one.

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My Saddle Purse Is Not Bipolar

Bow Tie o’ the Day and I stole Suzanne’s lunch hour by invading her office to do our usual off-the-wall routine. Just because we’re there, it doesn’t always mean Suzanne ceases working. On this day, not even The Saddle Purse could make her look away from the three computers sitting on her desk. She thinks she’s so important that the entire Utah public education system will fall apart if she stops to eat some yogurt and string cheese for ten minutes. She might be right.

I decided I should add something I didn’t include in yesterday’s post about depression and the depression side of bipolarity. It’s important for people to understand that a devastating depression does not generally correlate to the quality of a clinically depressed person’s life. [There is something called “situational depression,” which can occur when someone’s life is in tatters. But it tends to be not very deep and it goes away when the situation improves.]

Real depression doesn’t care about the quality of your life. It just shows up, like any illness. Take me, for example. I’ve experienced bouts of depression since I was a kid, and yet I’ve had a relatively tragedy-free, love-filled, opportunity-filled life. My life has been rich, and peopled with decent characters wherever I’ve been. All of that didn’t keep me from being bipolar though.

At this point in my life, I have the freedom to write all day. I live in a swell house. I’ve got a few bucks in The Saddle Purse. I get to travel quite a bit. I have a fine family, fine in-laws, and Suzanne. Skitter’s sleeping head is snoring on my lap even as I write this post. The evil parts of my pancreas got hacked out, and the pain they caused has mostly disappeared. I’m even satisfied that Mom is in the absolute best place for her to be for the last chapter of her life. As far as I’m concerned, I have everything. Not only does my cup runneth over, I’ve got more cups than I can count and they all runneth over.

But none of the gifts my life contains has kept me from being bipolar. None of it has kept this swamp of depression away. Mental illness does what it wants. All I can do is try to manage it. Meds help. Talk therapy helps. Practicing mindfulness helps. Writing about it helps. I hope TMS will help. Each of these things helps a little bit. At least, they help ME. I know they do not help everyone who is bipolar or depressed. See, my life is lucky even where that’s concerned: There are things that help me manage my bipolar head– and still this deep depression shows up whenever it wants.

I don’t get cocky about how well I have been able to manage my bipolarity throughout my life. I don’t get complacent that I have access to things that help me. All I can say is that I’ve managed to make it to this day. I can’t afford to act like I will still be able to manage it tomorrow. So far, so good.

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It’s Impossible To Visit A Newborn Empty-handed

A new baby doesn’t yet have the remotest clue it needs material items. It doesn’t own anything, and it doesn’t care to. A baby doesn’t even know it is bereft of stuff. For some reason though, we can’t stand that babies have nothing. We lather on the gifts– the toys, the clothes, the books, the furniture, etc..

Infants aren’t much aware of material objects, and they certainly don’t yet know the concept of “ownership.” Give ’em a couple of years, and one of the few words they will know– and will use annoyingly often– is “mine.” But right in the beginning of their baby lives, they seek only a few basic body feelings: a full tummy, warm skin, and a dry butt. We provide the objects that aid in the creation of these feelings for them: formula/milk, blankies, and diapers and Butt Paste.

So what absolute material baby-need comes next after Butt Paste? Neckwear o’ the Day, of course. There it is, up there in Grace Anne Blackwelder’s Kardashian-esque closet. Center of closet, top shelf. The box says “Dad & Daughter” and contains a Tie o’ the Day for Dad, and a matching Bow Tie Headband o’ the Day for Grace. I guarantee this initial foray into daddy-daughter neckwear will be life-changing– in the best of ways– for both Bishop Travis and his daughter. Oh, the power o’ neckwear to bring us close!

It is so important to pass along family traditions of all kinds. I’m part of Gracie’s family, and part of my contribution to the positive traditions she’ll benefit from learning about is my bow ties and ties, and all things clash fashion. Over time, I hope Gracie and I will connect by experiencing all kinds of silly and serious family traditions together. Ultimately, connection is the bigly purpose of learning and sharing traditions. Connection is kinda the point of our entire journey. It is its own tradition.

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My Excuse For Missing Last “Hairs Thursday”

My nephew, Bishop Travis, and his wife, Bishopette Collette, have been married 23 years. Their union overfloweth with blessings. But one blessing has never come to pass for them until this past week: a child. And then look who showed up, knocking her little BYU Cougar fists on their front door. Not only is she a dreamboat, she came into the world already knowing how to do her first bambino trick: she sneezes almost every time her diaper gets changed. She’s worth keeping just for that show-offy trick. TIE O’ THE DAY is pleased to introduce to our readers Grace Anne Blackwelder. (I adore that middle name.)

This is the only grandbaby for my Sister Who Wishes To Remain Nameless. She hogged Grace during our visit to Grace’s home. I was, however, allowed to hold the tiny darling while the new grandma went to the potty room. I timed it: I was allowed to hold Gracie for 1 minute and 9 seconds. That was longer than I realistically thought I’d get to cuddle her, so I felt lucky. I knew to not ask The Grandma if I could hold her again.

I’ve been alive long enough to know it’s downright hazardous to get between a newborn and a new grandma. Just remain calm; don’t touch the baby; and let grandma do her thing. Coo at the baby from a safe distance. Use binoculars from across the room if you want to examine the munchkin’s perfect toes. If you can remember these tips, your arms will most likely remain intact. Eventually, you’ll get your turn to hold the wee one. Or so they say.

BTW I chose to wear my fish taco Shirt o’ the Day and my popsicle Bow Tie o’ the Day to meet Grace for the first time, because I believe it’s never too early to teach kids about the finer things in life: things like Beethoven, Van Gogh, Meryl Streep, and fish tacos and popsicles. I did not introduce Grace to the captivating elegance of The Saddle Purse on our first visit. I thought that might overwhelm her just a bit much.

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A Solid Color. Don’t Get Used To It.

Today I’m sporting a velvet, floppy butterfly Bow Tie o’ the Day. It’s blue and blue, as you can see. I do not own many neckwear items in solid colors. They have a tendency to be matchy, and you know how I feel about attire that matches. Solid colors make me feel like the Not-Me.

Speaking of “Not-Me,” I think I’m having some minor, but weird, side effects from my TMS treatments. Again, there’s nothing to worry about, and I have no proof it’s even related to the treatment anyway. But when Suzanne and I were at Walmart buying dog food on Saturday, I began to experience a jittery manic episode– the exact likes of which I have not felt before.(I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: “Doesn’t everybody feel manic when they walk into a Walmart?” Har, har, har.)

This particular soul-fidget was nowhere near the worst I’ve ever gone through. It was actually quite manageable, though even the smallest bout of mania is always a bit dangerous and scary. We came home, and I got through it. Suzanne spied on me wherever I went in the house for the rest of the day, to make sure I wasn’t going to do something crazy-headed like throw all my Sloggers in the garbage. (Minor mania means I do minor weird stuff. Bigly mania means… you don’t wanna know.) My car keys somehow disappeared from their key hook for the rest of the day, as well. Suzanne, too, moves in mysterious ways. I thank her for that.

Yesterday, Mother’s Day, I still couldn’t focus enough to write posts. And then I did a thing– which was really done by my Not-Me. It was a thing so unlike anything the “real me” would ever do. But y’all will have to wait until the next post to read about my transgression. I’m still trying to figure out how to write about “my bad” in such a way that I don’t end up looking like an ass– if that’s at all possible.

Being bipolar sucks.